


Epic romance

by storiesfortravellers



Category: White Collar
Genre: Banter, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal thinks about the famous couples in literature and history and which one reminds him most of Peter and Neal. Originally published on lj.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epic romance

Neal has spent his entire adult life trying to convince Peter Burke that they are two of a kind. They have all the makings of an epic couple. They are Antony and Cleopatra, or Romeo and Juliet, a match despite all odds, a union of opposing sides and temperaments (Neal of course imagines himself as Romeo - it's obvious - but he can see Peter as being Antony or Cleopatra in equal parts). Sometimes Neal imagines they are Miss Bennet and Mr. Darcy (with Peter obviously being the grump). 

Most of all, however, Neal wants them to be like the couple that most captured his imagination (i.e., his fantasy life) as he spent his teen years hiding from his age group and his family in the library. Neal wants him and Peter to be like Achilles and Patroklos. 

But without the tragedy. Neal sees no reason why it should be hard to skip that part.

It's such a shame that Peter seems more interested in being Hector and Achilles. Hector the protector. The protector of the Trojans, not Achilles or Patroklos. 

And then, years later, when he becomes Neal's friend, Neal notes, with disappointment that Peter seems to think he's there to be Neal's guide, his mentor. The father figure he never had, the one who saves him from those who would take away the person Neal was meant to be.

Peter thinks he's the Odysseus to Neal's Telemachus. 

Or worse (far worse), Pygmalion to Neal's Galatea.

But Neal can be resilient. He has overcome far worse things than being adored rather than lusted over by the object of his affection.

So he waits. He is patient. And it all nearly falls apart, many times. 

But each time it gets better. Eventually.

Two months before Neal is going to be released, the case is going badly. They are stuck in the rain, no cabs in sight, walking halfway across town for a lead that they know might very well be useless. Their coats are soaked and his hat is, too, and their shoes are sloshing like they're filled with pudding, and they are both miserable and don't try to hide it. Peter has been hinting that he deserves to know what Neal will do when he is free, and Neal has not answered. After all this time, a question from Peter still feels like poking, like pressing, like a bruise. They are tired; Peter knocked on his door and dragged him out of bed at five in the morning to chase down a suspect who turned out to be inconsequential. 

The rain gets harder and they stop under an awning, frowning and waiting. Neal wonders if he'll miss days like this, if even this waste of a nice hat kind of day will be a fond memory some day, but feeling the squishy soles of his shoes as he leans back against a brick facade, he kind of doubts it.

And then, suddenly as a storm, Peter's hand is on his face.

And Peter has that semi-curious, semi-critical look he gives far too often, and he is running his hand lightly across Neal's cheek and jaw, his thumb savoring the texture of Neal's stubble. 

"I can't believe you didn't shave," he said, as if he were confused, as if his early raid on Neal's sleep meant nothing and he was astonished that Neal would leave the house imperfect. 

And Neal wondered why Peter would say this, do this, touch him as he was disheveled, as his face was rough and wet, and he wanted to say all of this, but somehow he just blurted out two words, and they came out raspy and needful, like a question.

"Two months..." he said.

Peter kissed him. 

Lips and heat and the stale rain dripping down off their faces and hair, and the cold wet fabric of their shirts and coats warming at the chest as it is pressed between two bodies.

When they parted, Neal's eyes were a question.

"We'll figure it out," Peter said, and Neal could tell that Peter was scared too, that he didn't have the answers yet either. But he could tell that Peter meant it, that it was more than a guess.

"We will," Neal promised back.

Peter raised an eyebrow and half-joked, "We couldn't wait a couple of months so I'm NOT the kind of jerk who makes a move on someone in my custody?" 

"I would be very disappointed if I didn't get to corrupt you at least a little," Neal shot back, determined not to be too overwhelmed to live the moment. 

They smiled and headed back into the rain, its heaviness and loud splatter of drops. A moment later, Neal said, loudly so Peter could hear him, "I figured out who we are."

"What?" Peter said, confused.

"Beatrice and Benedick."

Peter stared at him for a second and then smirked. "I get to be Benedick."

"Nope, sorry, you're definitely Beatrice. She always has to have the last word."

Peter looked at him for a second and then kept walking. But a minute later, he turned toward Neal and said, loud and clear, "You know, Benedick thought he was clever but Beatrice was the really the brains of the operation."

Neal just smiled and licked his lips. Even in the rain, it felt like Peter's warmth was still there.


End file.
